


Parliamentary Procedure

by methylviolet10b



Category: Basil of Baker Street - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mouse!Fic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dawson cannot recall how he wound up in his bed. Written for JWP #9.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parliamentary Procedure

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: I've only read one of the Basil books, so this might miss in terms of tone and actual mousely events. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.
> 
> JWP #9: Choose your own (mis)adventure. Use one or more of the following words in today's entry: pratfall, spit-take, faceplant, head-smack, double-take, slip.

“Dawson.”  
  
The sound of the voice was familiar, but the tone was strange; gentle, yet almost quivering with some undefined emotion. The dichotomy roused me as much as the voice itself, and I became aware that my head ached most fiercely, and that my eyes were closed. I opened them with some difficulty. “B-Basil?”  
  
“Yes, my dear fellow. Lie quietly for a good while yet; such a series of shocks must be taken seriously for even the sturdiest gentlemouse as yourself.”  
  
I frowned. I recognized my own room in Holmestead, but I had absolutely no idea how I’d come to be in bed at what looked like the middle of the afternoon. “What happened?”  
  
Basil started, and his head did a swift double-take. “You don’t remember _anything_ of what occurred yesterday?”  
  
Despite my best efforts, the only thing that happened when I tried to recall what extraordinary events must have led to this was an increase of pain in my head and flashing lights dancing before my eyes. I could not stifle a groan.  
  
Basil placed one quieting paw on my shoulder. “Easy there! You mustn’t strain yourself. Everything will wait until tomorrow.”  
  
“No.” It cost me something to utter even that one-word refusal, but I knew I would find no rest until I learned at least something of what had happened to me. I could feel the blankness in my memory nagging at me like an itch that one cannot reach to scratch. “Tell me.”  
  
Basil’s whiskers drooped, then arched upwards as he came to some internal conclusion. “Very well, but briefly, and then you must rest a while longer. We were cornered in the mews by some of Ratigan’s worst followers. Things were looking rather desperate – although I’m sure I could have come up with something to salvage the situation – when all of us, you and I and Ratigan’s lot alike, were set upon by a parliament of owls.”  
  
A jolt shot through me of unremembered, instinctual terror. Basil sensed it, of course, and his paw pressed more firmly, reassuringly, against my shoulder.  
  
“Yes. You pushed me out of the way of one of the owl’s talons. It was very brave of you, and almost certainly saved my life, but came at a high cost. You were knocked sideways by its wing and rendered utterly unconscious. It stooped for you, and I thought for a moment I would see you devoured before my eyes.” My friend shuddered, and I realized his touch was for his comfort as much as mine.  
  
“How did you save me?” For I never doubted that my friend had done so. Much to my shock, Basil shook his head.  
  
“It wasn’t me, Dawson. One of Ratigan’s minions fired a weapon, which startled all the owls, including the one attacking you, which caused it to slip. Instead of going for a…a definitive bite, it took an experimental nip at your clothing. And recoiled.”  
  
“Recoiled?”  
  
A faint smile twitched Basil’s whiskers. “By merest chance, the owl struck your pocket, where you had a bit of Mrs Judson’s cheese soufflé wrapped in a paper parcel – presumably for sustenance if we had no time for luncheon. Apparently owls do not care for cheese. It rejected it, and you, most violently.”  
  
I tried to envision the scene Basil described. “Are you telling me an owl did a spit-take and spat me back out along with the soufflé ?”  
  
“Essentially, yes.”  
  
I considered that. “I suppose I’m lucky to be alive, then. But it all sounds quite ridiculous.”  
  
“It had elements of low comedy, yes, although nothing in the way of pratfalls or head-smacks common to a farce.” Basil’s tail rose and shivered in a nearly unprecedented display of emotion. “But I assure you, my dear Dawson, I did not find it the least bit funny.”


End file.
